The Islanders: Volume 4: Lucas Gets Hurt and Aisha Goes Wild

By Katherine Applegate and Michael Grant

For the Islanders, falling in love is easy . . . staying in love is a lot more difficult. The drama continues in the fourth omnibus edition of New York Times bestselling authors Katherine Applegate and Michael Grant's action-packed series.

The first thing Christopher did when he moved to Chatham Island was try to convince Aisha she should give him a chance. And even though she was determined to resist his charms, Aisha soon found herself falling in love . . . until Christopher betrayed her.

Now Christopher wants a second chance. But when an old boyfriend comes back into Aisha's life, she is forced to decide whether romance—with anyone—is really worth it. Is Aisha ready to risk her heart again?

Formerly known as Making Out #7: Lucas Gets Hurt and Making Out #8: Aisha Goes Wild.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperTeen
• Release date: Jul 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9780062340832

Katherine Applegate

Katherine Applegate is the Newbery Medal-winning and #1 New York Times bestselling author of numerous books for young readers, including the One and Only series, the Endling series, Crenshaw, Wishtree, the Roscoe Riley Rules chapter books series, and the Animorphs series. She lives with her family in Nevada.

Book preview

LUCAS GETS HURT

PART ONE

Sometimes things change so much you feel like you’ve come full circle and back to a place you’ve been before, Lucas said.

So. That’s what this was about. Claire was a little surprised. Even a little disappointed in Lucas. Full circle back to a beach a long time ago? Claire asked, knowing the answer.

He nodded. Our first kiss.

She should put an end to this. She really should. But the memories were strong for her, too. There had been a time when she would have done anything for Lucas Cabral. And it would be a down payment on paying Jake back. Are you going to ask me as politely as you did then, Lucas, with your voice all squeaky and trembling? she said, half-mocking, half-trembling with anticipation.

Lucas slid across the car seat toward her, closer, close enough that the slightest movement would bring them together. Do I have to ask?

No, Claire said. You don’t.

Look man, look man, no, look, don’t man. Don’t shoot me, man.

He was begging. Praying to Christopher like he was some kind of a god. And with his gun, with his finger on the trigger, with the slightest pressure now the difference between life and death, wasn’t he like a god?

From far away the sound of a siren floated through the trees. The dog had started barking, jerking frantically at its chain. The skinhead had sunk to his knees, crying.

And the gun felt so powerful in Christopher’s hand.

Zoey saw her mother’s eyes were full of tears. She realized her own were, too. This was it—the destruction of her family. The end. Even worse, the destruction of her parents, all their tawdry, humiliating secrets now laid out to sicken their children. Zoey wished she could just disappear. If she’d still had even an ounce of energy or will, she might have grabbed Benjamin’s hand and run. But all she could do was watch and listen, helpless to change anything.

You might as well tell them the rest, Zoey’s mother said flatly.

Mr. Passmore nodded. Yes. The rest. It seems while I was with this woman in Europe, well, it seems she became pregnant.

Zoey felt the world spinning around her.

See, you both, Zoey, Benjamin, you have . . . a sister.

Zoey Passmore

If I believed in astrology, I would have guessed that some terrible alignment of the planets occurred on that Thursday when so many futures stood teetering between happiness and destruction. Sometimes I wish I did believe in something supernatural, because then you’d have a way of making sense out of things, you know? Blame it on the stars or whatever, rather than having to blame people. Or yourself. But I was left feeling that life was just unpredictable, that it might suddenly, without warning, blow up in your face. Which isn’t a very reassuring thing to believe, even though it may be true.

For me that Thursday meant the end of my family as I had known it. In the blink of an eye my parents, who I had been sure loved each other absolutely, became enemies.

And each of them, my father and mother, came away seeming smaller, more petty, weaker than I had believed. Not that I had ever thought of either of them as perfect parents, but I guess I’d always thought of them as very good people doing their best to be perfect parents, and that was more than enough for me. No longer.

It was like someone had declared the end of illusions. Illusions about my boyfriend, Lucas, and about Jake, my previous boyfriend. And now my parents. It made me wonder what other people I had misjudged. Nina had been my best friend for years, but if I could be so wrong about my parents, was I wrong about her, too? And Aisha? And even Benjamin, my brother, the one person I told myself was absolutely real?

And myself? Was I just a lie, too?

I sat in that room while my father told me the depressing truth and I had the strangest feeling. We were all still alive, my parents and my brother and me, tired, sad, but alive. And yet something had died.

Just an idea, really. The idea of a family. An abstraction. And it really shouldn’t hurt when an idea dies, should it?

ONE

SISTER. THE WORD HUNG IN the air between them. Zoey’s mother looked away, her mouth twisted in a bitter line. Her father hung his head, ashamed.

Where does this sister live? Benjamin asked.

I don’t know, Mr. Passmore said. Her mother and . . . and the man she thinks of as her father live in Kittery. I was never supposed to have anything to do with my—with the young lady.

"How Jerry Springer, Benjamin muttered. Or would this be more of a Maury?"

I guess Lara—that’s her name, Lara McAvoy—does know she has a biological father out there somewhere, but who, or where . . . I don’t think she knows.

This is not really what’s important right now, Zoey’s mother snapped in a brittle voice. Then, with an effort, she softened her tone. The important thing is that you kids realize that both of us still love you and care for you. We don’t want any of this to have to affect you.

Zoey laughed derisively. Too late.

Yeah, I think we kind of got affected, Benjamin said dryly.

I’m just tired, Zoey said, shaking her head. In a way I’m glad it’s all out in the open.

Her mother leaned forward, trying to meet Zoey’s evasive gaze. What I said to you the other day, Zoey. About this being your fault. That was totally wrong. We’re to blame. Your father and I, we’re the only ones to blame.

Zoey stood up, wobbly with spent emotion and exhaustion. Outside, the night had fallen. Inside the room, no one had turned on more than a single dim lamp. Her parents’ faces were in shadow, unknowable, almost unrecognizable in their masks of grief and shame and poorly concealed anger.

Yes, Zoey agreed. You are the ones to blame. But if you’re waiting for forgiveness from me, Mother, you can forget it.

People make mistakes, Benjamin said, so quietly Zoey wasn’t sure she’d heard him.

People make mistakes, Zoey agreed. But they don’t end up sleeping with men they’re not married to on a tiny little island where everyone knows everyone else’s business.

She was gratified to see her mother swallow hard. The barb had hit home. Good. They could say all they wanted that it was both their faults, but it had been her mother she’d walked in on. Her mother with Jake’s father.

Zoey walked away. She heard Benjamin rise too and follow her from the room. Zoey began climbing the stairs, almost too exhausted to move her legs.

Zoey? Benjamin called out softly from the hallway.

She halted, waiting silently.

People do make mistakes, Benjamin said.

The car swerved sharply around a cyclist, nearly invisible in the darkness, and fishtailed into a turn. In the backseat Aisha Gray was thrown against the door, bruising her narrow shoulder. But she didn’t ask the driver to slow down. The speed of the car, now flying down the dark road, siren wailing, was Aisha’s only hope.

How do you know where we’re going? Aisha yelled at the detective on the passenger side, the older of the two men. Sergeant Winokur.

He half-turned, and Aisha could see that his eyes were wide from the adrenaline rush. They glittered with reflected green dashboard light. His voice, though professionally measured, showed the raggedness of excitement, maybe even fear. "We don’t know, he said. But there are three possibilities. I put units on the others, too, as soon as you told me what was happening."

Aisha was confused. "Wait a minute; you know who these guys are?"

Sergeant Winokur nodded. We’ve known from the start. We have a pretty good idea who’s in these skinhead gangs. He made an annoyed face. Actually, we were hoping these particular lowlifes would lead us to bigger fish.

Just ahead, Sarge, his partner said, killing the siren.

Yeah. Look, miss, you stay in the car and keep down. Do you understand? Head below the back of this seat.

Aisha nodded. Her throat was tight. Her chest was a vise around a pounding, fearful heart. Don’t hurt him, she pleaded. Just don’t hurt him, please.

The sergeant gave no response. He tried unsuccessfully to hide the fact that he had drawn an automatic pistol from the holster beneath his sport coat. The gun was low by his side.

The car skidded to a stop, headlights illuminating a crazed, fleeting montage of dark tree trunks, a tilted mailbox, a gravel driveway, an old car, before coming to rest. Just up the street Aisha could see the van that Christopher had taken from the school’s athletics department. She squeezed her hands together and prayed with all her might. Prayed like she had not done since she was a little girl.

There he is.

Yep.

Doors opened. Aisha looked up. Christopher walked blindly, head bowed, a stark figure in the blue-white glare of headlights. The gun hung loose in his hand. He seemed to be stunned, immobilized. He looked down at the gun, then up, straight into the headlights.

Drop it. The sergeant rapped out the words. He stood behind the shelter of the open door, one foot still in the car, gun leveled at Christopher.

Drop the damn gun! the driver ordered.

Christopher still seemed confused, surprised, lost.

I said lose the gun! Lose it right now or I’ll shoot!

Lucas’s first kiss was tentative. Claire half-thought he might back away at the last minute. She half-thought she might back away, too. But neither did. And Lucas’s lips met hers.

The betrayal was sealed. With that first kiss Claire had begun to pay Jake back for sleeping with Louise, for still secretly loving Zoey, and for the worst crime of all—for not really loving Claire.

But it wouldn’t stop with one kiss. On the next kiss Lucas was bolder, taking her in his arms and holding her close. The feel of him was different. Not like Jake, not the wall of hard muscle, the bristly chin, the sense of physical power barely restrained.

Nor was this Lucas like the Lucas that Claire remembered from a long time ago, when his kisses had been sweet, his touch so gentle. This Lucas was more urgent, almost harsh.

And yet Claire felt her body responding swiftly to his touch. Her lips, her throat as he trailed kisses down to her collarbone, her heart as it pounded frantically. It was as if her body was somehow a separate creature from her mind. She felt a warm, spreading, intoxicating pleasure, but at a distance, not real.

He drew back just a little, catching his breath. His face was too near for her to see his features distinctly in the dim light from the dashboard. He was a blur with warm breath and dark eyes. He came closer still, and this time she opened her lips to him, and felt an answering increase in his own excitement.

It was strange. Such a combustible feeling, as if the two of them brought together would inevitably cause an explosion. And yet it was a cold fire whose warmth reached just the surface of her skin, tingling just the nerve endings while somehow leaving her mind unaffected.

Was she the only one feeling this strange disconnection? Was it some consequence of guilt? Was it concern for Zoey, for Jake? Did Lucas feel it, too? Was that the reason for his urgency? Was he racing to stay ahead of feelings of guilt?

She fumbled for and found the control button that lowered the plush leather seat into full recline with a mechanical whir. Her luxuriant black hair fanned out across the tan leather. Guilt, maybe, but sheer pleasure, too. Lucas was over her now, his weight pressing down on her, kissing her deeply, the two of them panting, groping, unrestrained.

His hands touched her, eliciting shudders of sensual response. His movements were so barely controlled, his fingers trembling, his breathing ragged.

Why not? Claire wondered. It was very clear what he wanted to happen next. Why not? It was a wild, passionate, insane moment. How often did anything like passion infiltrate even the corners of her dispassionate mind?

And if Jake could do it with Louise . . .

Lucas was undressing her with hurried fingers, driven by desire . . . no, by two desires.

The second of which was to hurt Zoey.

Sister? Zoey repeated the word into the mirror over her dresser. Half-sister, she corrected, but that formulation made her uneasy. She’d always felt there was something ungenerous about phrases like half-sister, half-brother. Like you were making an issue out of it. Like you didn’t quite want to accept a person.

"I don’t want to accept any of this." Her eyes showed the signs of sleeplessness and tears, the blue surrounded and invaded by redness, lids puffed, expression dull and lifeless. Her blond hair hung lank and straight to her shoulders. She glanced at her clock. Ridiculously early to get in bed. And yet when had she last had a real night’s sleep?

She began to undress, letting clothing fall on the floor, feeling a deep physical craving for her bed. In a strange way she was almost relieved. Things became simpler when you were too exhausted to think. She could feel her mind finally shutting down, her awareness like a diminishing circle of spotlight, smaller, smaller, releasing more and more into dark indifference.

She found her Boston Bruins jersey and slipped it on, reassured by its familiarity. At least some things didn’t change. Her sheets were cool, her pillows soft. She stretched her legs out, feeling the tension in her every muscle. Her toes invaded the cold corners of her bed.

Her parents were breaking up. It was impossible to imagine that anything could stop the disintegration now.

And she had a sister, somewhere, maybe not far away, with no face as yet. An abstraction, but full of possibilities and problems that Zoey was simply too tired to contemplate.

Tomorrow she would have to begin confronting all the stories, the details, the trauma of this terrible day. But first . . .

. . . sleep.

TWO

DROP THE DAMNED GUN!

Christopher stood paralyzed. The bright light had come up from nowhere, and now voices were shouting. He looked down at the gun in his hand. It looked alien and alive. He opened his hand slowly and the creature slipped from his grip.

It was a shocking sensation, the emptiness of his hand, just fingers again. He shook his head, feeling like he’d been sleepwalking.

Strong hands grabbed him, a leg swept his feet from under him, and he was facedown in the gravel. Sharp rocks cutting into his cheek. Dirt in his mouth. His arms were twisted roughly behind his back. He didn’t resist. He stared at the gun lying a few feet away, still more than just another artifact. Still like something living that had become a part of him.

Or was it the other way around? Was it he who had become a part of the gun?

He was jerked to his feet and pushed, staggering back against the hood of the car, blinking again in the lights.

Christopher!

Aisha. Her arms around him, her wet cheek pressed against his. Was she crying? Was he?

I’m making the weapon safe, a far-off voice said.

Sirens and wildly swinging blue lights were coming down the road at breakneck speed. One by one they skidded to a halt in a shower of gravel.

This weapon has not been fired, the first voice said.

Oh, thank God, Aisha said. Oh, thank you, God.

I couldn’t do it, Christopher admitted, feeling embarrassed and defeated.

Check around the back of the house, a second voice ordered. I . . . Look, if the kid back there is in one piece, I don’t need any formal statements from him at this time. You understand me?

Your call, Dave, the first man said, sounding doubtful.

I couldn’t do it, Christopher told Aisha.

I know. I prayed so hard . . . I knew you wouldn’t.

I had him. I mean, he was scared, he was crawling and begging and all I had to do was pull the trigger—

But you didn’t.

I couldn’t, Eesh.

Uniformed policemen were everywhere now. At least a half-dozen cars were spread out across and on both sides of the road.

The first cop was back. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the dark backyard, back to the sound of a frantically barking dog and a high-pitched, almost hysterical voice crying for revenge, screaming obscene threats now that the danger was past. He’ll live. Just shaken up pretty badly.

Any evidence of shots fired? Sergeant Winokur asked.

No shots. No witnesses aside from the victim and this clown. He indicated Christopher.

All right, Curt, see if you can’t break up this party while I have a little talk with the tough guy here. All right, tough guy, come with me, the sergeant said to Christopher. He hauled Christopher by his pinioned arm, pulling him, stumbling, down the dark road, away from the barking and the flash of blue lights and the wailing threats.

Where are you taking him? Aisha cried.

See this? the cop demanded angrily. Do you see what you’ve done to this girl who cares about you? She has to call us and come racing over here scared half to death?

Christopher shook his head in confusion. It was all happening in a blur. They were in darkness now, walking across dead leaves and fallen pine needles. A branch scratched his cheek. A sound was growing louder. Water. The river.

Sergeant, what are you doing? Aisha cried again, still keeping pace, clutching at Christopher’s other arm.

They stopped beside the river, an almost unseen but definite presence, running fast and loud, swollen with new rain and too-early snowfalls melting off the mountains.

Christopher was turned around. There was a metallic click and suddenly his arms were free of the handcuffs. He was aware of the police sergeant standing no more than a foot away. He could feel Aisha wrapped around his right arm.

That punk back there is named Jesse Simms. He was the third individual involved in the attack on you. Within about twelve hours of the incident, we’d rolled this kid over on his buddies. We’ve been trying to use the other two to identify additional members of this particular skinhead organization.

You knew? Christopher asked.

Yeah. Oddly enough, that’s our job. The cop’s tone was coldly sarcastic. "Sometimes we actually succeed. What was your job? What the hell were you doing here tonight with a gun?"

Christopher shrugged. I . . . Look, they put me in the hospital, man.

And the penalty for assault and battery is death now? Someone beats you up, you kill them? I’m curious, you know, since you’re making all the laws now.

Christopher shrugged again. The sergeant was clearly angry and growing more so. Christopher felt too drained to say much in his own defense.

So you were going to kill him, the policeman accused.

He didn’t, though, Aisha said fiercely.

No. What he did was commit assault with a deadly weapon. We could probably also call it kidnapping since he held the poor bastard with a gun to his head. But I don’t think Mr. Simms will be wanting to press charges, because I’m going to tell him not to.

Christopher exhaled and for the first time realized he had been holding his breath.

So. Tough guy. Why didn’t you shoot him? the policeman asked more gently.

I don’t know.

It would have been easy. You had the gun. He was helpless.

Christopher felt a wave of nausea at the memory. Yes, he’d been helpless, crying, begging. It made me sick.

What made you sick? That he was scared? That he was begging for his life? the sergeant bored in relentlessly.

No, Christopher said sharply. It made me sick that I made him beg.

You enjoyed it. The rush of all that power from that little gun.

No. Yeah, at first, Christopher admitted. And then . . . Look, he deserved it. He’s a racist piece of crap.

Surprisingly, the policeman laughed. You know what? Lots of people deserve lots of things, kid. Sometimes they even get what’s coming to them. Not all the time, but sometimes.

And now what? Him and his friends will maybe spend ninety days in jail? Then it’s right back out on the streets.

That’s about right.

Maybe I should have killed him, Christopher said, but without conviction.

And now you’re ashamed because you didn’t? You think you’d be proud if you had? You think you’d be standing here feeling like a big man because you took a life?

No, Christopher admitted.

No. And you didn’t get off on scaring that little punk. You know why? Because it takes a weak individual to enjoy causing fear. It takes a very small man to get pleasure out of another individual’s pain. Maybe you just aren’t a small enough man.

Christopher realized he was trembling, barely understanding what the cop was saying. All he knew was that a wave of relief so powerful it rattled him to his bones was sweeping over him. He had been so close to pulling that trigger.

Something was in his hand again. The gun. Emptied of shells, harmless, and yet so seductive.

We checked you out after you first filed the complaint, Sergeant Winokur said in a quieter voice. You work hard, kid. You have plans and you have a girlfriend here who is probably too damned good for you. And there was some provocation. So you’re going to walk away from this one.

Thank you, Christopher said in a whisper.

Don’t thank me, Sergeant Winokur said sarcastically. I want a nice, clean case when we bust the rest of these punks. I don’t want the jury having to deal with you playing vigilante. Now if you’d been found with a firearm, I wouldn’t have much choice but to bust you and pretty much flush your life down the toilet. Do you follow me?

No . . . I . . .

What I’m saying is, that river is surprisingly deep way out in the middle.

Christopher nodded, comprehension penetrating his confusion. The sergeant gave him a long, thoughtful look. Then he turned his back deliberately and began to walk back toward the flashing blue lights.

Thanks, Christopher called out after him. I won’t . . . you know.

There was no response. Christopher realized Aisha was still there, almost holding him up while his legs felt watery, his knees threatened to buckle. He felt weak as a newborn.

Aisha stepped away, waiting.

Christopher drew back his arm and found that he still possessed a reservoir of strength. The gun flew invisibly through the night. Seconds later there was a splash far out in the river.

Let’s go home, Aisha said.

We can’t do this, Lucas, Claire said a little breathlessly. Not that I don’t want to, but I think maybe it’s a little far to take payback.

Lucas stopped his hand where it was but didn’t pull it away. For a fleeting moment Claire wondered if he would stop. She had let things go way too far.

His voice was challenging. That’s all this is to you? Payback?

Oh, come on, Lucas, what is it to you?

It’s . . . He began cursing. He snatched his hand away, breaking contact.

Claire laughed. She used the button to raise her seat and began refastening everything Lucas had done such a good job of unfastening.

You’re cold, you know that? Lucas demanded, sliding back across the seat.

Uh-huh. I’m cold, but you’ve suddenly fallen madly in love with me, right? It isn’t just that you’re horny and you’re mad at Zoey for refusing you. Or that you’re worried about that long, very long hug between her and Jake? It isn’t that you’re thinking, ‘well, I get laid, plus I get to pay Zoey back’?

A semblance of humor returned to Lucas’s features. "As revenge goes, it would be pretty effective."

You and me. Could either of us have come up with a better way to piss off Jake and Zoey?

Lucas laughed unwillingly, unable to resist the truth. Still, he said ruefully, it’s not like I was just faking it.

No, me neither, Claire admitted.

You haven’t exactly turned into a gorgon.

We could definitely be dangerous together, Claire admitted. But you’re still in love with Zoey.

He shrugged and looked away.

I think Jake is, too, at least partly.

Great, now she was feeling sorry for herself. Well, why not? Benjamin had obviously gotten over her a lot more completely than she’d ever expected. The level of affection between him and Nina was nauseating. And Lucas, and maybe even Jake, carried torches for Little Zoey Pureheart.

What did Jake feel for Zoey? What, if anything, did he feel for Claire? What, if anything, did anyone ever really feel for Claire?

Claire stole a glance at Lucas. Already